Troubles of Waldenof, Part 2
"Honestly, boys, I don't want any trouble," Ciri said sincerely or tiredly. She spread her empty hands wide. "Just leave the girl. That's all I ask."
The drunken trappers laughed evilly. "Just leave the girl alone," one of them mimicked in a high-pitched, lisping voice.
Ciri looked around the tavern for support. A few hardy fellows clad in heavy furs of mountain men looked at her with drink-fuddled eyes. The store owner, a tall, swooped man with lank hair, turned and began stacking bottles of preserves on the rough wooden shelving. There were no other customers except for the ones brawling with the imperial soldiers outside.
One of the trappers, a huge man, loomed over her. Ciri could see the particles of grease stuck in his beard. When he opened his mouth to speak, the smell of cheap brandy overwhelmed even the odor of the rancid bear fat which the trappers had covered themselves with against the cold. Ciri winced.
"Hey, Hef, I think we got a city girl here," The trapper said. "She speaks right nice."
The one called Hef looked up from the table against which he had pinned the struggling girl.
"Aye, Lars, right, pretty she talks, and all that nice ashen hair, like ash. Could almost take her for a guy herself."
"When I come off the mountains, anything looks good. I tell you what: you take the girl. I'll have this pretty woman."
Ciri felt her face flush. She was getting angry. She hid her anger with a cold smile. She wanted to avoid trouble if she could. "Come on, gentlemen, there's no need for this. Let me buy you all a drink."
Lars turned to Hef. The third mountain man guffawed. "She has money too. My luck's in tonight!"
Hef smirked. Ciri looked around desperately as the big man advanced on her. Damn, where was Mieszko? Why was the mercenary never around when a woman needed him? Was he still busy trying to subdue that god's damn riot!? She turned to face Lars. "Oh, I could think of something more than a bit of coin," she said seductively.
She saw Lars relax somewhat, letting down his guard as he advanced. Ciri let him get closer. She watched the trapper spread his arms as if he were about to hug her. Ciri suddenly jabbed her knee hard into Lars's groin. With a whoosh of the blacksmith's bellows, all of the air ran out of the big man. He doubled over with a whimper. Ciri grabbed his beard and pulled the man's head to meet her knee.
She heard teeth break, and the trapper's head snapped backward. Lars fell on the floor, gasping for breath and clutching at his groin.
"What in the name of Taal?" Hef said. The big trapper lashed at Ciri, who grabbed his arm, throwing him towards the ground, but his friend got lucky, and the force of the blow sent her reeling across the room into a table. She tipped over a tankard of ale.
"Sorry," Ciri apologized to the drink's startled owner. Ciri struggled to lift the small table and hurl it at her assailant. She strained until she thought the muscles in her back would crack.
The drunk looked at her and smiled wickedly. "You can't lift it. It's nailed to the floor. In case of fights."
"Thanks for telling me," Ciri said, feeling someone grab her by the hair and slam her head into the table. Pain smashed through her skull. Black spots danced before her eyes. Her face felt wet. I'm bleeding, she thought, then realized it was just the spilled beer. Her head was smashed into the table a second time. As if from very far away, she heard footsteps approaching the table.
"Hold her, Kell. We're gonna have us some fun for what she did to Lars." She recognized the voice as belonging to Hef.
Desperately, Ciri jabbed backward with her elbow, ramming it into the hard muscle of Kell's stomach. The grip on her hair loosened somewhat. Ciri tore free, and she turned to face her assailants. With her right hand, she frantically fumbled for the beer stein. Through a haze, she saw the two gigantic trappers closing in. The girl was gone; Ciri saw the door close behind her. She could hear her start shouting for help. Hef loosening a knife in his belt. Ciri's fingers closed over the handle of the stein. She lashed out and hit Kell square in the face with it. The trapper's head snapped around; he spat blood and turned back to Ciri, smiling moronically.
A normal man would have whimpered or stumbled backward, but it would imply that men in this sphere are much more resilient than men on the continent.
Fingers, muscled like steel bands, grabbed Ciri's wrist. The pressure forced her reluctantly to drop the stein. Despite frantic resistance, Ciri's arm was inexorably forced up her back by Kell's superior strength. The smell of bear fat and body odor was almost overpowering. Ciri snarled and tried to writhe free, but her struggles were fruitless.
Something sharp jabbed at her throat. Ciri looked down. Hef brandished a long-bladed knife at her throat. Ciri smelled its well-oiled steel. She saw her own red blood trickle down its central channel. Ciri froze. All Heff had to do was lean forward, and Ciri would be walking in the afterlife.
"That was downright unfriendly, girl," Hef said. "Old Lars was only bein' affectionate, and you had to go and bust his teeth. Now what you reckon we should do about that, we bein' friends 'n' all"
"Kill the thnotling fondler," Lars gasped. Ciri felt Kell push his arm further up her back until she feared it would break. He moaned in pain.
Rekon, we'll just do that," Hef said.
"You can't," the trader behind the bar whined. "That'd be murder."
"Shut up, Pike! Who asked you?"
Ciri could see they meant to do it. They were full of drunken violence and ready to kill. Ciri had just given them the excuse they needed.
"Been a long time since I killed me a pretty girl," Hef said, pushing his knife forward just a fraction. Ciri grimaced with pain. "Gonna beg, pretty girl? Gonna beg for your life?"
"Go fuck yourself," Ciri said. She would have liked to spit, but her mouth felt dry and her knees were weak. She was shaking. She closed her eyes.
"Not so polite not, city girl?" Ciri felt thicker laughter rumble in Kell's throat. What a place to die, she thought—some hell-spawned tavern in the middle of a city straight out of a hellish nightmare.
There was a blast of chill air and the sound of a door opening. "The first one to hurt the woman dies instantly," said a young, deep voice that grated like a cold ice breeze in a snowstorm. "The second one I take my time over."
Ciri opened her eyes. Over Hef's shoulders, she could see Mieszko.
The young man stood silhouetted in the doorway, his tall form filling it widthwise. He was only the height of a young man, but he was slightly muscled like two strong men. Torchlight illuminated the strange tattoos that covered his left arm and turned his eye sockets into shadowy caves from which his stoic, mad eyes glittered.
Hef laughed, then spoke without turning around. "Get lost, stranger, or we'll deal with you after we've finished your friend."
Ciri felt the grip on her arm relax. Over her shoulder, Kell's hand pointed to the doorway.
"That so?" Misezko said, stomping into the room, shaking his head to clear the rain from his dark hair. The chain that ran from his hip to his right shoulder jingled. "By the time I've finished with you, you'll sing as high as a goat."
Hef laughed again and turned around to face Mieszko. His laughter died into a sputtering cough. The color drained from his face until it was corpse-white. Misezko grinned nastily at him, revealing white, bloody teeth, and then he ran his thumb across the scabbard of the curved sword that he carried on his hip. Blood dripped freely from a cut lip he received from one of the more aggressive peasants, but the kislevit just grinned more widely. The knife in Hef's hand clattered to the floor.
"We don't want no trouble," Hef said. "Leastwise, not with a red ice bear of Kislev."
Ciri didn't blame him. It would seem no sane man would cross a member of that winged, northern horse-riding mercenaries. Mieszko glared at them, then lightly tapped his armored foot against the floor. While Kell was distracted, Ciri seized the opportunity to elbow Hef in the stomach, knocking the air out of him before putting some ground between herself and the mountain man.
Panting Hef was starting to panic. "Look, we don't want no trouble. We were just funnin'."
Mieszko laughed darkly. " I like your idea of fun. I think I'll have some myself."
The commander of the Gryphon legion advanced towards Hef. Ciri saw Lars pick himself up and start crawling toward the door, hoping to slip past the Gryphon legionary while he was distracted. Mieszko brought his boot down on Lars's hand with a crunch that made Ciri wince. It was not Lars's night, she decided.
"Where do you think you're going? Better stay with your friends. Two against one is hardly fair odds."
Hef broke down completely. "Don't kill us," he pleaded. Kell, meanwhile, had moved away, bringing him close to Ciri again. Mieszko had moved right in front of Hef. The blade of the Kislevit's curved blade lay against Hef's throat. Ciri could see the runes on the curved blade glinting redly in the torchlight.
Slowly, Mieszko shook his head. "What's the matter? There are three of you. You thought they were good enough odds against the woman. Has your stomach gone out of you?"
Hef nodded numbly; he looked as if he was about to cry. In his eyes, Ciri could see a superstitious terror of the Kislevit half-breed. He seemed ready to faint.
Mieszko pointed to the door. "Get out! he roared. I'll not soil my blade on cowards like you."
The trappers scurried for the door, Lars limping badly. Ciri saw the girl step aside to let them by. She closed the door behind them.
Mieszko glared at Ciri. "Can't I even stop to arrest a couple of thieves without you getting yourself into trouble?"
"Perhaps I should escort you back," Ciri said, inspecting the girl closely. She was small and thin; her face would have been plain except for the large, dark eyes. She tugged her cloak of, of course, Sudenland wool about her and hugged the package she had purchased in the trading post to her chest. She smiled shyly up at her. The smile transformed that pale, hungry face, Ciri thought, giving it beauty.
"Perhaps you could, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble whatsoever," she said. "Maybe those basterds are still lurking about out there."
"I doubt that. They seemed too afraid of your friends."
"I would show them a thing or two if a certain someone would give me back my swords!"
Mieszko rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab and keeping his stoic visage like a marble statue. His entourage, on the other hand, was quietly snickering at their leader but was silenced by a single cold glare.
"Let me help you with those herbs, then."
"The mistress told me to get them specifically. They are for the relief of the frostbitten. I would feel better if I carried them."
Ciri shrugged. They stepped out into the chill air, their breath coming out in clouds. In the night sky, the dead trees loomed like giants. The light of both moons caught on their leafless branches so that they looked like outstretched hands in the sky, floating above the sea of shadow.
They walked through the squalid shantytown that surrounded the city. Ciri saw lights and heard lowing cattle and the muffled hoofbeats of horses. They were heading towards a campsite where more people were arriving.
Gaunt, hollow-cheeked soldiers, clad in tattered tunics on which could be seen the sign of a grinning wolf, escorted carts drawn by thin oxen. Tired-looking drivers in the garb of peasants gazed at her. Women sat beside the drivers, shawls drawn tight, headscarves all but obscuring their features. Sometimes children peeked out over the back of the carts to stare at them.
"What's going on?" Ciri asked. "It looks like a whole village on the move."
The girl looked at the carts and then back at him.
"We are the people of Gottfried Von Monte. We follow him into exile, to the land of the merchant princes."
Ciri paused to look north. More carts were coming down the trail, and behind them were stragglers, limping on foot, clutching at thin sacks as if they contained all the gold of Araby. Ciri shook her head, puzzled.
"You must have come through Ostermark," she said. Mieszko had taught her the old dwarf routes that run across the empire of man. " And it's late in the season for that. The first blizzards must already be up there. The river is only calm in the summer."
"Our liege was given until year's end to leave the Empire." She turned and began walking into the ring of wagons that had been set up to give some protection from the wind. "We set out in good time, but there was a string of accidents that slowed us down. On the river itself, we were caught by a strong tide. We lost many people."
She paused as if remembering some personal grief.
"Some say it was the "Von Diel Curse". That the baron can never outrun it."
Ciri followed her. On the fire sat a few cooking pots. There was a huge cauldron from which steam emerged. The girl pointed to it.
"The mistress's cauldron. She will be expecting the herbs."
"Is your mistress a witch?" Ciri asked. She looked at her seriously. "No, m'lady. She is a sorceress with good credentials, trained in Middenheim itself. She is the baron's adviser in matters magical."
The girl moved towards the steps of a large caravan covered in mystical signs. She began to climb the stairs. She halted, her hand poised on the handle of the door, then turned to face Ciri.
"Thank you for your help," she said.
She leaned forward and hugged her tightly, then turned to open the door.
Ciri laid her hand on her shoulder, restraining her gently. "A moment," she said. "What is your name?"
"Kirsten," she said. " And yours?"
"Cirilla. Cirilla Fiona."
She smiled at her again before she vanished inside the caravan. Ciri stood looking at the closed door, slightly bemused. Then, feeling as if she were walking on air, she strolled back to the city.
"Are you mad?" Mieszko Syemomysl demanded. "You want us to travel with some renegade duke and his rag-tag entourage? Have you forgotten why we've come here?"
Ciri looked around to see that no one was looking at them. She decided there was little chance of that happening. She and the mercenary nursed their beer in the darkest recess of the barracks. A few drunks lay snoring on the trestle tables, and the sullen glowers of Kileverin mercenaries kept the casually curious soldiers at bay.
Ciri leaned forward conspiratorially. " But look, it makes perfect sense. The Grand Duke is in desperate need of keeping his soldiers paid on time, and they have money. It would be beneficial if we rode with them."
Mieszko looked at Ciri dangerously. "Are you implying I betray my current contract for some peril on this road?"
Ciri shook her head. "No. All I'm saying is that it would make the Grand Duke's life a bit easier, and we might get paid for our efforts if the Baron could be persuaded to take us as mercenaries."
Mieszko brightened a bit at the mention of money. All mercenaries are misers at heart, thought Ciri. Mieszko appeared to consider it for a second, then shook his head. "No. If this baron has been exiled, he's a criminal, and he's not worth dying for, much less fighting under."
He ducked his head and looked around with paranoid shiftiness. " Fugger's gold is more than enough, yours and mine. Mostly ours, of course, since my men do the bulk of the fighting."
Ciri felt like laughing. There was nothing worse than a mercenary in the throes of gold lust.
"Mieszko, we don't even know where or when these raiders will attack next. All we've got to go on are the ramblings of some senile old merchant who claims to have seen these ghost marauders. Skulf Skollsson couldn't remember his own name half the time."
Although she was overjoyed that dwarves in this sphere were not antagonized but were greatly revered as close friends to humanity, old feelings die hard, unfortunately.
"Skollsson is a dwarf, Ciri. A dwarf never forgets the ones who slighted him or her clan. You know the problem with you southerners? You have no respect for elders. Among the Dawi, Skollsson is treated with respect."
"No wonder the dwarfs in this sphere are always in dire straits, then," Ciri muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Just tell me this. Why didn't Skollsson return to exact his revenge himself? He had the entire day to search for those who raided his caravan himself. He's had plenty of time."
"Because he showed proper fiscal caution-"
"Meanness, you mean."
"Have it your way, Ciri. He was crippled by poison. And he could never find anybody he could trust."
"Why suddenly tell you then?"
"Are you implying I am not trustworthy, m'lady?"
"No. I think he wanted to get rid of you; he wanted you and your men out of his tavern. I think he invented the cock-and-bull story about the Raiders having the world's largest troll because he knew you would fall for it. He knew it would put a hundred leagues between you and his ale cellar."
Mieszko bristled, and he growled angrily. "I am not such a fool, Ciri. Skollsson swore to the truth on the beards of his ancestors."
Ciri groaned loudly. "And no dwarf in this land has ever broken an oath, I suppose?"
"Well, very rarely," Mieszko admitted. "But I believe this one."
Ciri saw that it was of no use. Mieszko wanted the story to be true, so for him, it was true.
He's like a man on a mission, thought Ciri, unable to see his mission frailties for the wall of illusions he has built around her. Mieszko stroked the edge of his cup and stared into space, lost in contemplation of catching the raiders. Ciri decided to play his trump card.
"It would mean we wouldn't have to
"What?" Mieszko grunted.
"If we sign on with the baron, We could catch the bandits who are raiding the caravans. You're always complaining that you're not doing enough. This is your chance to secure the trade routes."
"Just think about it." She added enticingly. "We get paid, and the raids stop."
Mieszko appeared to contemplate this once more. "I can see I'll get no peace unless I agree to your scheme. I'll go along with two conditions."
"What's that?"
"No mention of our true intentions. Not to anybody. Secondly, when I give you back your sword, you escape."
Ciri agreed. Mieszko raised an eyebrow and looked at her cunningly.
"Don't think I don't know why you're so keen on this baron, Ciri."
"What do you mean?"
"You're enamored with the chit of a girl you left here with earlier, aren't you?"
"No!" Ciri spluttered. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Mieszko laughed uproariously, waking several slumbering drunks.
"Then why has your face gone all red, m'lady?" he shouted triumphantly.
Done, finally finished. Sorry for the long wait, but I needed to get into the Warhammer mood, if you know what I'm saying. Also, I wish the people at a creative assembly would put Tilea, Estalia, Ind, Nippon, the Hinterland, Albion, and most of all, Araby, or even the Amozons. They would make some awesome playable factions.